A smidge of exaggeration

I attended a client event after work last night and racked up three hours of extra time so now I can leave early on Friday and finish preparing for my trip. And tonight, I dine with several college friends, in the style of St. Elmo’s Fire style. Except none of us looks like Rob Lowe, though we're all partial to Demi Moore-esque breakdowns.

I woke up on my fouch (Or the couchon … the Futon Couch strikes again!) and my right bicep was hurting. I don’t know why. After nearly killing myself in water aerobics last week, I didn’t go this week. So now I have mysterious arm pain, which distinctly feels like a pulled muscle, and weird left knee pain, presumably from all that water jogging. Translation: it’s darn fun to watch me walk down a flight of stairs. Up is even more hilarious. I’m already dreading climbing 412 stairs to my client’s apartment this evening. (She lives on the third floor of a carriage house and the stairs outside are narrow and steep and there are probably 680 of them, which will be fun to traverse (a) with my sore knee and (b) in this 947-degree heat. I am also a bit scared of heights, which means I will be a sore, sweaty, panic-stricken mess by the time we get upstairs. Pray for me. And for air conditioning.

I’m so cheesed when I log on to someone’s blog and they’ve updated it. I always want to post comments about how god- or goddess-like the blogger is for entertaining me, but most of the people don’t know me outside of my sporadic comments and I don’t want to come off sounding like Weird Stalker Grrl. Because I’m not. But sometimes you just want to say, “It’s soooooo great that you’re, like, you know, like, an awesome writer and like, all that because, like, I love to read good writing and like, be entertained and, like, if I move to your city, will you be my friend?” Yeah, I don’t want to know that girl either.

I leave work in about 2.5 hours for the aforementioned client event and then it’s off to dinner with my buddies. Since we’re all so ancient, I should be home in time to watch the results show for So You Think You Can Dance, during which I will definitely get my camp chair groove on, which will probably look suspiciously like The White Man’s Overbite.